In the midst of a rush to finish my thesis, my wife insisted I couldn’t spend all my days cooped up at home. So, this weekend, I was tasked with taking her nephew, Mike, to the park. A simple plan turned complicated when Mike, showing a lack of manners typical for his age, invited three classmates without asking. When I inquired about these new additions and whether they had any bad habits, Mike retorted, “You don’t really want to spend time with me, do you?” He was nine, challenging.
Among his classmates, two mirrored his discourtesy: a loud, bald-headed boy called Baldassare (Allow me to call him Bald Ass) and a girl named May, suffering from princess syndrome. Then there was Michelle, quiet, mostly nodding along. I’m not criticising anyone, merely describing. After all, I was no better at nine, and not much has improved since then.
In tow with four kids, I clutched a book titled The History of Human Civilization and Social Structure and headed to the park.
Under the fiery red kapok trees of April, an old man scattered oats, attracting a small flock of sparrows. They pecked at the grains and at each other’s tails. A plump child, captivated by Mike and his gang, quickly lost interest in his mother. I stood at the park entrance, smoking, delving into the world of my book.
Before I finished my first cigarette, the plump child, in tears, was already leaving the park with his mother. They both shot me a how-dare-you look as they passed.
Curious, I asked the kids what happened.
Bald Ass said, “We were playing tag, and we wanted him to be ‘it,’ but he said no.”
“Why did you want him to be ‘it’?”
“New kid, new ‘it’,” was Bald Ass’s response.
I shrugged. “Well, forget him then.”
Michelle interjected, “But now we don’t know who should be ‘it.’”
“Do rock-paper-scissors,” I suggested.
“No,” said Michelle. “If Mike loses, he’ll be ‘it’ and won’t get chased like us. That’s sad. If May loses, she’ll be ‘it’ and won’t get chased like us. That’s also sad. If…”
Bald Ass cut her off. “Basically, we all want to get chased together.”
Michelle nodded in agreement.
I explained, “But that’s the game. If you want to get chased, someone has to do the chasing.”
“Why?” asked Mike.
“Why? Well, then let’s not play tag. Let’s play something else. Let’s play ‘Run, Run, Run’: from this end to that, from that end back to this. You run.”
“And then what?”
“And then there is no ‘what,’ so no one feels sad, and no one needs you to feel sad for them.”
Mike pondered this. May, less inclined to introspection, asked directly, “Can you chase?”
“So, it’s sad for you to catch someone, but not for me?”
“You’re an adult. What’s there to feel sad about?”
“I’d have to be crazy to answer you,” I declared and collapsed onto a bench, tongue lolling to one side.
May frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I answered you. I am crazy.”
However, my proclamation of craziness didn’t deter this energetic bunch.
Fortunately, Mike came up with a solution. “There’s a way, but you have to help us.”
“That depends on my mood.”
“Every three minutes, you shout a name. Whoever you call is ‘it.’”
Michelle nodded. “This way, we can all be a little bit sad!”
After she seconded the motion, this progressive game of tag began. “Mike.” “Michelle.” “May.” I was like a random-play cassette player. But I had to admit, watching the four kids run under the slanting sun brought a sense of comfort. Why? After much thought, my thoughts directed me to a TV ad for an insurance company: “Children are the future of Hong Kong.”
“Baldassare,” I called out, careful not to say Bald Ass. Flipping back to my book, I continued, “Mike.” “May.” “Baldassare.”
By the time I noticed again, the kids had stopped running. Instead, they stood in four corners of the park, heads bowed, kicking at the dirt like waiting for Godot. Bald Ass was supposed to be ‘it,’ but he just stood there, doing nothing.
“Mike didn’t try to catch anyone either,” Bald Ass defended himself.
“That was right before it was someone else’s turn,” Mike retorted. “If I got too close to you, I’d be caught immediately.”
“Let’s make each round ten minutes,” May suggested.
“Ten minutes is too long,” Bald Ass disagreed.
They eventually settled on seven minutes and fifteen seconds, seemingly an average of everyone’s suggestions. The problem was, even with the new rules, while Bald Ass was enthusiastic, May, when it was her turn, again refused to move.
Sitting on the ground, May declared, “I said it should be ten minutes per round. You didn’t agree. That’s fine. I’ll just wait out my turn. After all, whether to catch someone or not is up to me, right?”
Bald Ass lost his patience, stomping on the ground and throwing punches at the air. “If you don’t chase, how can we play tag?”
May retorted, “Blame Mike for coming up with a weird game that’s impossible to play.”
Mike swept his hand towards the three. “It’s not my fault. None of you objected, and Michelle even agreed.”
Michelle, caught in the crossfire, said, “I just wanted everyone to be happy without feeling sorry…”
The kids began arguing, and like dominoes, one by one, they started to cry. I closed my book, turned off the timer on my phone, and leaned against the fence, smoking. As I blew smoke rings into the crimson sunset, my thoughts wandered to my thesis, to The History of Human Civilization and Social Structure, and to human flaws. Acknowledging flaws, understanding flaws, mastering flaws, rather than being controlled by flaws, requires immense awareness and willpower. Adults often lack it, let alone nine-year-olds.
As the streetlights came on and the sky dimmed, we had fifteen minutes left before heading home.
“Alright,” I said, walking over to them. “Game over. I have a sad announcement: Due to a severe shortage of post-dinner ice cream, I’m now ‘it.’ Whoever gets caught gets no ice cream.”
“You’re crazy!” May yelled. “You’re infected with a crazy virus!”
“And it spreads!” I said, raising my hands.
At that, May bolted away in horror.
“Wow!” I shouted.
The kids jumped.
“Wow wow!” I shouted again.
The kids jumped again, this time in laughter.
Before facing the greater storms of life, they at least had the joy of today.